Now of their wounds complain, Now sink and faint and die.

XII.

Such is th' event of human things, The fates of emp'rors and of kings; Death in the rear disaster brings, Dreadful to see!

Such as great POPE or HOMER sings, Strains far too high for me.

XIII.

But CHARLES and valiant DAUN retreat, Who lately led an army great-- At _Breslau_ now in shatter'd state They rendezvous: And there bemoan their adverse fate, And dismal overthrow.

XIV.

The _Prussian Chief_ pursues with speed, At his approach they're fill'd with dread, From whose terrific arm, dismay'd, So late they flew!

O FREDRICK! matchless prince, proceed, Thy glorious course pursue!

XV.

To him those _Heros_ yield the town, And him a _greater Hero_ own; Who soon its walls could batter down, And lay them low.

Long may he wear the _Prussian Crown_, And curb each haughty _Foe_.

--Annandius.

March 11th, 1758.

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-279, Mar. 1757, Phila.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE.

I.

Oh G.o.d! all powerful G.o.d!

Invincible, unknown!

Creator, father of all; Whom every nation implores; Whom the Barbarian worships in the wind.

By what name will it please thee That I shall address thee? Oh infinite, All wise, and eternal spirit!

At the foot of thy sacred throne I most humbly bow my head.

II.

Forsaken by my only friends, In a strange country, Where winter was near killing us; The enraged enemy on every side, With their savage instruments, The sword and fire consuming, As if sacrificers, They came with their deadly rage, And hasten'd to destroy us with cries of triumph.

III.

But in thy penetrating view, How vain are powerful troops!

I, still intrepid, dare the combat; My buckler and my lance being my cause: And behold the armies meet; They turn their backs, we following to punish: Victorious each of my soldiers Seems to carry of war The most terrible thunder; And every arm is a thousand in the fury of the combat.

IV.

Then I owe thee success To fortune! why so?

Justice succoured me; From on high she cast down her eyes; And when she perceived the contending parties, She lifted up her hand to weigh The right of each side, And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.

The King of Prussia employs himself in times of peace in the following manner: He rises at five; on business till seven; dresses, and receives letters and pet.i.tions till nine; from nine to eleven with his ministers; then on the parade, to exercise the guards; dines at half an hour after twelve with some of his officers; at half an hour after one he retires till five; then somebody reads to him till seven; then the concert; at nine come the men of genius; they sup half an hour after, and converse till eleven; then the king retires, and at twelve goes to bed.--He is a statesman, soldier, author, and musician; indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs everything; very frugal; without farce of state; the idle officers of the court have the usual t.i.tles; but no pay for the drones, tho' they are mostly officers.

THE THIRD PSALM PARAPHRASED, ALLUDING TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Look down, O G.o.d! regard my cry!

On thee my hopes depend: I'm close beset, without ally; Be thou my shield and friend.

Confed'rate kings and princes league, On ev'ry side attack To perpetrate the black intrigue But thou canst drive them back, Long did I fear their wink and nod; In close cabals they cry'd, _There is no help for him in G.o.d_; His kingdom we'll divide.

Amid their army's dreadful glare Thou gav'st me inward might, Teaching my arm the art of war, My fingers how to fight.

Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest, Expert in war's alarms, Calmly I lay me down to rest In thy protecting arms.

Nor will I fear their empty boasts, Tho' thousands thousands join; Since thou art stil'd _the G.o.d of hosts_, And victory is thine.

Arise, O G.o.d, and plead my cause, O! save me by thy pow'r; If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws, Guide this important hour!

'Tis done!--they shudder with dismay; My troops maintain their ground: Lo! their embattl'd lines give way, And we are victors crown'd!

Success, ye kings, is not your gift; To heav'n it does belong: The race not always to the swift Nor battle to the strong.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-78, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

SPEECH OF THE PRINCE OF BRUNSWICK TO THE HANOVERIAN AND HESSIAN TROOPS.

To injured troops thus gallant BRUNSWICK spoke; 'Shall we with tameness bear the _Gallic_ yoke!

'Will ye, O Veterans, inur'd to pains 'And toils of War, drag ignominious chains?

'Turn and behold! behold where hostile bands 'Seize on your properties, lay waste your lands, 'Your daughters, wives, s.n.a.t.c.h'd forcibly away, 'Slaves to proud _Gallia's_ sons, to best a prey!

'Hark! how with piercing Cries, the tender Maid, 'By force subdu'd, implores her father's aid; 'In agonies repeats her brother's name, 'To flay the ruffians and preserve her fame!

'Rouze! GERMANS! rouze! a glorious vengeance take; 'Religion, honour, freedom, all's at stake!'

... "Enough," they cry'd, "let FERDINAND proceed, "We dare to follow, where he dares to lead."

Fir'd by their country's wrongs, to arms they fly, Resolv'd to save her, or resolved to die.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

ON A CARGO OF FRENCH m.u.f.fS SEIZ'D BY THE PRUSSIANS.

Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough, To each of his nice captains, sends a m.u.f.f, Knowing his troops too tender to resist The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist; For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold, Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold.

_Prussia_, a different scheme in war approves; Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves.

Defy the rigour of the chilling air, And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare.

_Bourbon!_ if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim, Think of some wiser way to purchase fame: Some other arts thy rival to subdue, Soft m.u.f.fs, without keen swords, will never do; Thy shivering troops would act a better part, Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart; Less for their valour than their heels admir'd With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd, Success thy arms would never fail to meet, Were battles to be won by nimble feet.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE IMITATED IN RHIME.

1.

Father of all! all pow'rful Lord!

Infinitely unknown!